


Redwing

by Pi (Rhea)



Category: Baccano!
Genre: F/M, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-12
Updated: 2010-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-13 15:49:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhea/pseuds/Pi





	Redwing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Person](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Person/gifts).



The letter arrives on a Friday. Claire is out but that’s nothing unusual. What is strange is that the letter is addressed to her not to Claire. Claire’s business is not precisely above board but more often then not a similar letter will arrive for him: a place, a time, a body count, and a token of future compensation. Chane works with Claire often enough, they’re a perfect team, though Claire rarely needs any help, he’s willing to allow her a share of the excitement even though most jobs ask just for him. The writing on the letter is flowing and beautiful and Chane wonders at the quality of the paper. The letter is simple and to the point. Chane packs her things and leaves the letter on the table where Claire will see it, not that he wont know already.

The train takes a week but Chane finds it restful. Unlike her previous experiences on the cross-continental railroad there is no bloodshed to speak of. Chane spends her time preparing. Claire would perhaps have been the better choice for this job, but Chane’s confident in her abilities. The first problem is getting to the island but Chane was not Huey Laforet’s protégé cum daughter for nothing. The letter gave her an idea of where to find the man she was to extract. Still, Chane prepares for every eventuality.

The train arrives on the coast and Chane is relieved to walk streets instead of a swaying dining car. The air is thick with fog, but more than that opacity the whisper of _him_ makes her uneasy. She’s not here to free him. With Claire, she had cut all ties to Huey Laforet. Well every tie she could. She fingers the edges of her black sleeves, the hard edge of steel just beneath her fingers. Claire had brought her the clothes suggesting that if she were to work on her own they would benefit her freedom of movement as well as camouflage.

Chane waits until the early hours of the morning. The fog is thick, the air is cold, and it is dark enough that Chane could believe herself to be no more than the ghosts her father’s followers claimed to be. She slips in undetected and follows her memory of the letter, eyes flicking through the doors of cells at each sleeping inmate. He’s instantly recognizable when she finds him. Chane has to hold in a gasp. His face is familiar. She should have known when she read the letter. He’s wearing white striped with black, but even sleeping, his face is intense. As Chane holds still before the bars his eyes snap open. Not so asleep then. Chane gets to work. His eyes follow her, a smile curving his lips as she efficiently picks the padlock. It opens with a quiet snick. He rises more silently than she would have given credit for a man his size. He does not speak as she leads him out, but she can feel the intensity of his eyes on her the entire time.

When they are back on the shore she turns to him. She hands him a letter and it’s accompanying package, the one she is to deliver, and waits for him to open it. His eyes barely glance over the inscription on the front before he laughs, a big booming sound that makes Chane want to duck for dark corners out of sight.

“Oh my Lua, always looking after me.”  He opens the package. Chane turns away as he begins to unbutton the pants of his prison uniform to exchange for the pressed wool dress pants. After a few minutes she turns back to catch just the last flex of his powerful shoulders as he pulls his prison shirt over his head, buttoning a white dress shirt in its place. Re-dressed in, albeit expensive, street clothes, he turns his attention to the letter. His fingers caress the envelope for a moment before tearing it in half and stuffing the crumpled unread pieces in his pocket.

"And what’s a doll like you doing on a job like this? Where’s that pretty dress you were wearing?” He says, his attention focusing on her. He steps forward and frowning at her more practical pants. “You can’t dance in this!” Chane watches him cautiously, calculating his approach. “Come on!” Again he surprises her. His lurch forward throws of her balance as he grabs her wrist dragging her behind him.  Chane turns her wrist lightly to test his grip. She has to step quickly to keep up with his gait. His hold on her arm is strong. She decides to wait a little further; her job isn’t done till he’s read the letter. Though, Chane supposes, that’s a moot point now.

The man leads her through the streets as if he knows them well. Eventually they fetch up outside a still lit shop. It appears to be a boutique. The bell rings as he pulls her inside. Once within the shop the sound of music is faintly audible. The man laughingly whirls her by the arm thrusting her back against a rack of dresses. Chane waits, held still by years of training as he pulls dresses this way and that, comparing the colors to her face.

“Ah, this is it!” he yells at last. He waves a large hand at the patiently waiting girl behind the counter “Miss, we’d like this one!”

Chane doesn’t know where the man gets the money, but he pays far more for the dress than it’s worth. He herds her behind the changing curtain, then gentlemanly pulls the curtain closed and turns his back. Free of his hold, Chane contemplates her options. She’s sure she could get past him, but she’s almost curious now. She doesn’t have anywhere to be. Claire won’t expect her for another week. She’s in a new city with strange people. She’s just accomplished a job and a near stranger has bought her an admittedly beautiful dress. Chane wouldn’t have chosen that exact color of red herself but, holding the dress up to the mirror she thinks it would look beautiful. With an inward sigh Chane begins to unbutton her shirt. She wants to know what he’ll do next.

She’s almost nervous pulling back the curtain, tucking one stray lock of hair she jostled while redressing back into place. His face when he sees her is astonishing. Chane isn’t sure she’s ever seen such an expression, even on Claire. Parts wonder, pleasure, possession, and pride. She isn’t certain she likes the expression, but it does suit his face. He grabs her hand this time, twirling her under his arm in circles around the room. His eyes don’t leave her face as he asks the shop attendant, “Which way to the dance, Miss?” She points toward a rack of men’s winter coats. Her smile is amused as she watches them. Chane wonders what they must look like. What must the clerk think of the strange man and the silent girl dancing in her shop? But then he’s pulling at her hand pushing aside wool coats and ducking through a low door down steep stairs to a basement or cellar.

The lower they descend the louder the music grows. It’s so dark that Chane can barely see, just the outline of his white dress shirt in the low light. Then a warm glow floods her vision as the stair opens out into what appears to be a dance floor. Chane is unable to completely hide her surprise, though perhaps the music should have given that away. There are couples dancing everywhere and a live band on a raised stage of wooden moving flats. She’s so busy looking around that again she’s startled when the man’s hand pulls firmly just behind her shoulder blades. He moves them out onto the floor with the innate grace of a frequent dancer. Chane dances little. Claire doesn’t dance, he fights and that’s nearly as beautiful. Huey never danced, only schemed and dressed her up like a beautiful doll. This man, he dances. His dancing is insistent and rough where Chane doesn’t know the steps. Pulling her uncomfortably close to his chest when she fumbles her footing. 

She is suddenly airborne her toes skimming the floor as he whirls them to a new space on the dance floor. Chane tries to follow, to keep her own space and composure like the dancers she sees whirling around her, but the harder she tries, the more she finds herself dancing practically on his feet.

“You’re backleading.” His voice growls in her ear “I like that, but that’s _not_ the way a proper lady dances!” Chane nods quickly to convey her understanding, though she doesn’t really understand. The music changes to a quicker tempo. She sees his smile broaden but doesn’t have time to worry before she is again swept off her feet. This time he swings her over his hip, spinning as he does so.

Chane has a moment to worry she’s going to kick someone before his strong hands about her waist touch her down to the floor the second it takes to transition the turn to the other direction. Chane gives up knowing how to dance. This man doesn’t need any help. Relaxing against his touch is strange but as she watches she begins to understand. Many of the other couples are performing similar wild and aggressive movements, but none quite so many. This man and his dancing have gathered a crowd. Chane can see them blurring around her as he spins her off to one side then back against his chest. Perhaps there is something she can do. She lengthens her arms to exaggerate his moves and focuses instead on extending each position, rather than copying his footwork. The man picks her up over his head before swinging her down to the floor and jumping over her. The crowd claps. 

 _T_ _his is like fighting_ Chane thinks as she springs up, hand extended, empty. Instead of throwing a knife, she runs at him. Her feet hit his thighs and his hand finds the small of her back, tipping her off into a roll. His smile is brilliant and feral. He comes at her, his feet tapping away in an intricate rhythm she could never match, but she jumps over his shoulder, catching it with her feet to swing round to face him.  When he catches her at the last second, her head inches from the floor Chane can’t help the small smile that slips across her face. This is _fun_. Their crowd is much larger now, whistling and clapping. The music draws to a close and his hand snags around her waist, drawing her to his side as he bows.

The next song is slow, slower than the first. The man doesn’t loosen his grip but sways into her side. Around them couples are breaking off. Many people are leaving the dance floor for the darkened bar in the far corner. Those that are left dancing… Well, Chane’s not sure she can see any space between the couple across from her. The man dips her sideways over his leg, following her down and still not leaving any space. Chane breathes steadily through her nose her eyes locked on his face. He slowly lifts her back up again shifting her off his leg.

“I take it you’ve never really danced before” his voice is deep and almost soft. Pressed close to his side, Chane shakes her head. “Still can’t talk?” he asks, a hard edge to his voice. Chane nods. She’s almost certain he wont start something in this crowd of people, not on a dance floor. But she’s not positive. He stares at her for a while, rocking them back and fourth with the nudge of his shoulder and hip. Finally he smiles again, “Well, maybe I properly never introduced myself? I’m Ladd Russo. It’s a pleasure to meet you. And what might your name be?” Chane looks at him for a long moment before carefully shaping the sound of her name. His eyes watch her like a hawk and his smile sharpens.

“You _can’t_ talk. Well, it’s to bad I can’t read lips.” His hand comes up to brush her hair. Chane holds very still. “You’re so pretty in red and black, like a red wing black bird. They have the prettiest voice in the marsh. I’ll have to call you my little Blackbird, and maybe someday I’ll hear you sing.” And with that, the man, Ladd Russo, leans down. His lips a rough, hard press against her own before he pushes her away none-to-gently. He disappears up the stairs. Chane stands, dazed for a moment, the warm light of the room caught on the bloody color of her dress. Slowly she unclenches her fingers letting go of the smooth fabric. Well. Her job here was done.

Chane catches the train the next morning. She is half hoping, half worried that the man, Ladd, will be on the train, but he isn’t. Chane spend the train ride back thinking. She wears her own pants and shirt, the ones Claire bought for her. However in the bottom of her bag is the neatly folded dress. The clerk at the store wouldn’t accept it as a return no matter how Chane tried. Eventually she’ll have to explain that to Claire, or maybe not.

Upon returning home, things are more or less normal. Claire laughs at her story and kisses her gently, promising to take her dancing some day soon. Chane nods though she isn’t sure she wants to go dancing. There are jobs and work and other more important things to attend to. Anyways Claire is too vibrant for any sort of restrained movement. Chane isn’t certain he wouldn’t literally light the dance floor on fire just by being there.

A month later a bouquet arrives at their door. Chane receives the baffled deliveryman with a good-natured smile. Accepting the armful of cattails feels akin to happiness. 


End file.
